The Ridiculous Extravagance of Being Paid Fairly: In Defense of Supply Management

I read the most horrifying thing today.  I call it a “thing” because to call it what I want to call it would be crossing lines I would rather not cross.  For the sake of clarity, let us call it a “sentence.”  This sentence was the first in an opinion column written by Mr. Mark Bonokoski of the Edmonton Sun.  It appeared in today’s paper (August 30, 2018).

I am not familiar with Mr. Bonoski’s work, as I do not read his column on a regular basis.  The only reason I read it today is because I couldn’t find my copy of the Alberta Farmer, and I needed something to occupy me during my coffee break.  The large headline, “Dairy Dilemma,” caught my attention.

The following is the first sentence of an article written by someone who is either highly ignorant, or writing with such sarcasm that what he actually wants to say is obscured:

“If Justin Trudeau wants to finally be seen wearing his big boy pants, and not be seen through the lens of Donald Trump as being inherently “weak,” he will kill the supply management scheme that has dairy farmers unconcerned about ever having to downgrade their Cadillacs.”

By the time I got through that much of the article I was boiling mad.  The author went on to complain about artificially high milk prices that are produced by supply management.  I won’t waste my time trying to counter that argument.  Farmer Tim and Creekside Dairy on Facebook both do a far better job of explaining why supply management is key to keeping both supply and price stable, and how it allows farmers to get a fair and reasonable price for their product.

I’m not going to throw a bunch of statistics or anecdotes at you to illustrate the dire straits dairy farmers in other nations face because they don’t have or have dismantled a supply management system.  You can learn about that for yourselves. 

Today, I want to tell you the three reasons why that sentence matters to me.

1.       Mr. Bonokoski just attacked my friends without reason.

I have several friends and acquaintances who are dairy farmers, both in my home county, and from other Canadian provinces, east and west.  These people are decent, hardworking folks.  They do not provoke fights.  They are not mobsters or “toughs” in some “dairy cartel.”  They sacrifice their time, money, health, social lives, and even family time to produce nutritious milk for consumers.  They are not schemers.  They are not ridiculously wealthy.  They are not heroes.  They are ordinary people, who work hard to support their families and communities.  Mr. Bonokoski, how dare you attack them?

With news of rising farmer suicides across the country, and indeed the world, due to the insane amounts of stress we encounter, would our government put an additional burden on my friends in the dairy industry?  Will my friends be the next to crumble under the stress of consistently producing milk at a loss and requiring government subsidies to stay afloat?  Is it so wrong for my friends to want to be paid fairly?  Is it wrong for me to want my friends to do well in their chosen fields?

2.       My home county is directly affected by a supply-managed dairy system.

In my first semester of agricultural school, I was required to take a class that gave us a general overview of Canadian agriculture.  I remember almost nothing from that class, but I do remember that on the day we looked at the Alberta dairy industry I learned that my county, the County of Barrhead, is home to one of the major dairy centers in the province.  I always knew we had dairy farmers around, but I didn’t know we had so many of them!

Why does that matter?  I’ll tell you why.  I live in an area that has an economy based on agriculture.  Like it or not, when the farmers suffer, we all suffer.  Between wet springs that delayed planting, wet autumns that hindered harvest, and hailstorms in between, the past few years have been bad for the crop farmers.  This year, a drought and lack of feed are making things difficult for the beef farmers.  And now our dairy farmers are watching in horror as our neighbours to the south demand the dismantling of the one thing that ensures they get paid fairly. 

Is it selfish of me to want my home county to do well economically?  Probably.  But I’m not writing this post as a moral or informative piece.  I’m telling you why that sentence made me angry and this selfish reality is one reason.

3.       Dairy farmers don’t drive Cadillacs.

I’m sure there are a few dairy farmers out there who have a Cadillac.  Everyone saves to be able to have a little something nice.  Some people like nice cars and there is nothing inherently wrong with owning a Cadillac.  That said, I personally do not know of any dairy farmer who drives a Cadillac (or anything remotely close).  Mr. Bonokoski is perpetuating the lie that dairy farmers are some big fat cats who are only in it for the profit, as if dismantling the supply management system would immediately cut the price of milk in half and put those uppity so-and-so’s in their place.  

That is not the case.  Just like all farmers, dairy farmers work hard for everything they have.  All they ask, all any of us in a production industry ask, is to be paid fairly for the product we produce.  Supply management allows dairy and poultry farmers the ridiculous extravagance of being paid fairly.  Other producers are not always so fortunate.

Mr. Bonokoski, I know we need a reasonable trade deal with the United States, but is it really necessary to take away the luxury of a fair paycheck from any portion of the population, no matter how small?

Do dairy farmers care?  I think they do.
https://picryl.com/media/more-milk-for-victory-a-filmstrip-prepared-by-the-fsa-farm-security-administration-16

The Day the Bull got a Pedicure

Hi there!  My name's Charger and I'm one of herd bulls here at Ehrenholz Farms.  I'm actually the favourite herd bull.  Seriously, you should see my offspring.  They're the top calves in the pasture!  No other bull even comes close to being as highly respected as I am by the farmers.

Hold on...  Some yearling just informed me that his daddy, Ol' Charlie, is actually the favourite.  Kid, I don't care if your daddy has the temperament of Ferdinand.  I'm the best bull around here!  Now go away; I'm trying to talk to the humans.

Sorry about that.  There will always be deniers.

Anyhoo, I've been here for a little over a year and have quickly risen to the upper ranks of the bulls.  My calves are awesome.  My form is splendid.  My temperament is perfectly fine.  I have never given the farmers a single moment of worry.  Until recently, that is.

You see, I was hanging out with my herd in the north pasture, where there's a bunch of muskeg and I may have been showing off a little (hey, the ladies like to be impressed) and I sort of stepped on a sharp stick.  I'm no wimp, but that hurt!  To make matters worse, the wound got a little infected and formed an abscess, so I limped a little.  The limp was barely perceptible.  Don't you be letting the four-eyed farmers tell you they saw me limp from across the field!  They had a lucky guess, okay!

Well, my farmers, they're pretty decent as far as humans go, so they brought me up to the yard and put me in with the yearlings for a few days until they could take a good look at my foot.  When they did, they didn't see the puncture wound (I hide my pain well - it's part of my charm).  What they did see was that my toes on that foot were overlapping a bit.  The younger farmer had the gall to say I had scissor hoof!  Ladies and gentlemen, only cattle with poor foot conformation get scissor hoof.  As I already told you, my form is splendid.

Obviously I was insulted, but then they started talking about maybe having to sell me, or at least not keeping any of my daughters in the herd.  Can you imagine!  If I were a lesser bull - which I am NOT - then of course there would be no question of whether such actions would be necessary.  I'm not ignorant of reality.  Lesser bulls don't get second chances and poor feet automatically put a bull in a low position.  But like I said, I'm not a lesser bull.

My farmers, as I already mentioned, are pretty decent, so they figured they'd give me a chance and take me to the hoof trimmer.  A few days later they loaded me onto the trailer and off we went.  The last time I was on a trailer, I came to live at my farm, so I figured wherever I was going would be okay.  I also had never had my hooves trimmed before, so I was totally unaware of the gross indignity that awaited me.

I'll spare you the more tedious details, but when we arrived, I was moved into a chute that seemed pretty normal, a lot like the one at home where the farmers put me to check my foot.  The next thing I knew, a sling had closed under me and the entire structure - with me in it - was being tipped up on its side!  I was horrified!  I couldn't move!  My best chance was to try to kick my way out.  I struggled a bit, but then the hoof trimmer tied each of my feet to the sides of the structure!  It didn't hurt, but really, you'd think there would be a more dignified way of doing things.  I mean, if you don't want me to kick you, then stay away from my feet!

There was no way out and I knew struggling was useless.  I lay there and waited for whatever would come next.  The big guy that had tipped me up and tied my feet started scrapping the mud off the bottom of my hooves.  Next, he picked up a grinder and used it to file away bits of my hoof.  I didn't like the noise, but I couldn't really feel it (I'm told humans have things like hooves on their fingers, called fingernails, if that helps you get the idea of what was happening).

After he had trimmed my hooves, he showed the farmers my puncture wound, which they hadn't seen before.  He also had the nerve to call me a baby for being sensitive to the pain when he poked at it.  I bet he wouldn't be brave enough to try that if I wasn't all tied up!

I guess the guy wasn't so bad, because he also told my farmers that they shouldn't be worried about keeping any of my calves because my feet are just about perfect (I told you so!).  The only reason my hoof grew kind of weird was that the ground had been so soft last year from all the moisture, so the hoof didn't wear down evenly.  I can't believe my farmers were so panicky about it.  You'd think they'd never had a bull with real scissor hoof before.

Oh... Apparently they haven't.

Well, as the hoof trimmer was showing my farmers just how awesome my feet are, he suddenly noticed something he hadn't seen before.  He took his hoof knife and started cutting away at my hoof.  Again, it didn't hurt, until he poked the abscess that none of them had seen up until that point.  Finally my limp was justified!

The guy cut away almost the whole hoof on that toe, leaving only a ridge on the outside edge for me to walk on.  I have to balance a bit more on the other toe now, but with the hoof gone, there's nothing to rub on the abscess (which is not nearly as bad as it could have been) and it'll heal up soon and I can get back to my herd!

For now, though, I'm stuck hanging out with these goofy yearlings.  As for my hoof, it'll grow back soon.

I Called the Vet - After an Animal Died

Please be advised that this post contains graphic descriptions of a dead animal.

Friday, February 9, 2018, 4:40 pm

I went out to do chores a couple of hours ago.  Yeah, I do chores in the afternoon.  I had work this morning and then I had to go to the next town over to get supplement for the calves (thanks to HiPro shutting down our local feed mill), so by the time I got home, ate lunch, and rested a bit (I hadn't been feeling well), it was significantly later than when most farmers feed their cattle.

After taking a little bit of grain (as a treat) to the youngest group of calves, and feeding the bulls, I filled the troughs for the feeder cattle.  Walking to the gate to let the calves in for grain, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.  Two greyish legs were stick up in the air, way at the back of the pen.  Every farmer know that's a sure sign an animal is dead.  I let the calves in, locked them in the feeding pen, checked the waterers, and then slowly walked over to check out the situation.  I expected to find a bloated calf, with it's eyes picked out by ravens.  It had probably eaten too much grain.

That is not what I found  The heifer (female calf) - about 8 months old - was blown up like a balloon, as all dead animal eventually are, but didn't really look like it had bloated.  I haven't actually seen a whole lot of calves killed by bloat, but this one just didn't have the classic bloated look (one side blows up, while the other stays fairly normal).  And the eye was still in the socket, but there was blood all over its head.  I don't think that's normal.  There was no evidence that any animal (raven, coyote, etc.) had found the dead heifer and started eating on her.  However, blood leaked out from her eye, nose, and mouth, and there were a couple of spots of blood in other places on her body that didn't really make sense.  I have never seen that much blood on a dead animal that hasn't been touched by another animal.  What on earth happened to this heifer?

My mind immediately went to the Worst Possible Scenario (of course).  Anthrax.  I had learned a bit about anthrax in my livestock health and disease course in college.  It's rare, deadly, zoonotic (passes to humans), and must be reported to the Canadian Food Inspection Agency.  Leaving the heifer, I returned to the house and grabbed my edition of The Beef Cow-calf Manual.  I looked up anthrax and read about the symptoms: sudden death, possible lack of rigor mortis, failure of clotting in the blood.  I read that anthrax is rare and that it usually occurs in hot, dry summers, following wet springs.  Totally unsure of a diagnosis, I called my dad and described the calf to him.  He has never heard of anthrax (why would he? It's rare), but agreed that I could call the vet and have the heifer tested.  After pulling the heifer out of the pen with the tractor and letting the calves back in, I hurried inside and called the vet before the office closed.

The vet (the one who always seems to get my worst cases, the poor guy) talked to me for a while to get some information.  He said it's not likely anthrax, as it doesn't usually occur this time of the year (which I already knew from my reading, but it's always reassuring to hear a professional say so) and suggested a liver abscess, before promising to send someone out in an hour or two, whenever they have time.

So now I wait, hovering between panic that my entire herd will be infected and embarrassment at what is probably a total over-reaction.  I tell myself that my super cool farmer friends from college would not be this worried about one dead heifer, no matter how unusual the circumstances.  I remind myself that this heifer was only recently weaned and may not have been able to keep up to the grain ration like the older calves.  She's probably just bloated and I just couldn't tell.  The vet will show me what I missed and it will all be okay.  And yet, I have left my outside work clothes in the basement until I can get them washed in hot water, and have instructed my roommate to not let her cat into the porch or basement, since cats can catch anthrax, too.

5:20 pm

I just heard the dogs barking and glanced out the window to see that the vet (one I hadn't met before) was already over by the heifer, so I headed out to get his diagnosis.

It was bloat.

He's not sure why she bloated, because she seems healthy and nothing has changed in her diet.  Apparently it is common for blood to come out of the facial orifices, because bloat causes the blood to all gather and pool in the front part of the animal, restricting the blood from reaching the hind end.  He showed me the signs, talked for a bit about the two kinds of bloat, and told me to keep an eye on the rest of the calves.

So, I guess my panic was for nothing and I'll have to pay for a post-mortem that really wasn't needed.  But hey, I learned something new and got through the ordeal in fairly good shape.  Also, the vet didn't laugh at me, which was rather gracious of him.

I guess I'd better get of the computer and write down the heifer's death in my record book.  I just wanted to share with my readers a bit of what farmers do when they encounter a dead animal (though usually without the panicked over-reaction).

After writing the heifer's death details in my record book, I had to "retire" her Canadian Cattle identification Agency (CCIA) tag from the CCIA record system.  This screen shot shows the confirmation portion of the process.

Town Jobs are Weird

I thoroughly enjoy farming.  It's a good life.  Unfortunately, the pay isn't so good, especially when one is just starting out.  Because I would like to live slightly above the poverty level, I took the sage advice of my dad and got a part-time job in town earlier this year.  I've had town jobs before.  During my high school years I worked at the public library, and during the first three years of my post-secondary education I worked at the library at my school.  But, those were student jobs.  I've also had temporary jobs doing janitorial work, or working for another farmer, and I have a tiny lawn-mowing business in the summers, but those don't amount to much experience with "normal" jobs.

Now I have a real grown-up job and I'm beginning to realize that town jobs* are weird.  Allow me to enumerate the reasons behind this conclusion.

1. Vacation Time
I didn't get paid vacation time this year (because I had just started the job), but I did take off a week to go on vacation and all I had to do is ask the boss, make sure no one else was gone at that time, and mark it on the calendar.  That's it.  No finding someone to keep an eye on the farm and feed the livestock.  No planning it just right to make sure to be gone during that one-week window when everything can be put on hold for a while.  No mad rush in the last few days before vacation to get everything done.  Going on vacation is downright stress-less with a town job. (Of course, I still have the farm, so all of these things still apply to me, but still...can you see my point?)
Next year I'll have two weeks of paid vacation time.  I can't even wrap my mind around that.

2. Holidays and Weekends
Saturday?  Sunday?  Victoria Day?  Labour Day?  Canada Day?  Thanksgiving?  Christmas AND Boxing Day?  ALL off?  I'm speechless.
(And let's not forget about those jobs that pay extra to those who work holidays and weekends).

3. Coffee Breaks
I first encountered coffee breaks when I worked at the college library.  I was forced to just stop working after a set amount of time and not work until the coffee break time was over.  What is this nonsense?  We only take coffee breaks on the farm if we're between two jobs and have a moment to sit in the shade and chew on some rhubarb or something.  Now I sit at a table for 15 minutes each morning and read the newspaper until the break is over.  Not that I don't enjoy coffee break, mind you.  It's just such a strange concept.

4. Bonuses
I got a Christmas bonus with my last pay cheque.  It wasn't extravagant, but I certainly didn't expect it.  I mean, when I get a bonus on the farm it's because the price of cattle (or canola, or hay, or whatever I'm selling) jumped just at the right time.  With a town job, you get bonuses just because you work there. I think that's how it works anyways.  It's very confusing...and nice.

5. Quittin' Time
My boss has had to tell me a few times to stop working and just go home.  In town, quittin' time is quittin' time.  If there's work left to do, I have to leave it for tomorrow.  On the farm, I don't work late every night, nor even most nights (unless it's a busy season like harvest), but we don't get to just quit because of what the clock says.  We go until the day's work is done (or until Mom calls us for supper).

What about you, fellow farmers?  What are some weird things you've come across in your town jobs.  And for those who don't work on a farm, what do you like about your town job?  Let me know in the comments below!

*Please note that when I talk about town jobs, I am generally referring to non-shift work, punch-in-at-9, punch-out-at-5 types of jobs.

Thanksgiving on the Farm

A while ago, before I got totally caught up in the craziness that is harvest, I asked my readers what I should write about next.  I had writer's block and needed some help.  My question garnered only one response: write about thanksgiving on the farm.  My writer's block went into overdrive.  Far from inspiring me, the suggestion drove me to frustration.  Was I supposed to write about how fun it is to cook and eat the food that we have grown ourselves, enjoying our bountiful harvest and resting from the work of the year?  That's just not how it is!  Thanksgiving is not a romantic, restful respite at the end of a long harvest season.  Not for my family.

My frustration grew and I moved on to other projects until the full swing of harvest swept me up and away from all but the necessary tasks of the day.  There's a funny thing about harvest, though: it's inspiring.  When I am on the tractor, stiff from a day of work, far from a pen, pencil, computer, or voice recorder, and seeing no end in sight to the work ahead, the writing comes to me.  I play it over and over in my head until I've got the words just right, and then I come home and release it onto the computer screen, even though I'm too tired to even pay attention to grammar or spelling.  My inspiration hit this week, just a few days before Thanksgiving.  "I will write about what Thanksgiving is really like on the farm," I thought.  And I began composing the words in my mind.

Without further ado, allow me to present to you, Thanksgiving on the Farm:

Thanksgiving always seems rushed on the farm.  It's not like Christmas, when we can do chores between gifts and dinner, and then spend time as a family afterwards.  It's a quick, scheduled event.  Get the chores done in the morning.  Do as much work as possible before changing into clean clothes to help Mom with the final preparations before our late dinner.  She has been cooking and preparing for most of the morning.  All I have time to contribute is some pickles.  This year I'll bring a jar of beet pickles - the only thing I had time to can this year - and the last jar of last year's mustard pickles, a family recipe from Oma.  If I have time on Sunday, the only day I allow myself to rest during busy times, I might be able to make some biscuits to bring to dinner on Monday, too.

Upon arrival at the house, Dad will carve the turkey, while I stir the gravy and mash the potatoes and Mom dishes up the vegetables, stuffing, and everything else.  When the table is set with Mom's good dishes and all of the food has found a place on the table, we will sit there in our casual clothes, saying what we are thankful for, before diving in to the feast before us.  Previous experience will tell us to take it slow, but we may or may not listen.  When we have eaten our fill, Dad and I will take the time to help Mom clean up the kitchen before returning to the fields.  The day will continue as all the other days.  The only differences will be that I will not have to work at my town job in the morning, and our lunch break will be longer than usual.  That is, unless it rains.  I can't remember it ever raining on Thanksgiving, but you never know.  If it does rain, we'll take our time with the meal, restlessly glancing out the window and praying for the rain to stop.

This is not an unusual account of Thanksgiving on the farm.  Indeed, I have heard stories of Thanksgiving dinner being brought to the field for the workers to wolf down (sometimes a little too quickly) before returning to their frantic work.  I can't recall ever having Thanksgiving dinner in the field, but as harvest drags on and I just want to be done, I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be more convenient to eat in the field, or to just put the feast on hold until the crop is safely in the bins and the machinery stored in the shed for the coming winter.

Most years I wish I didn't have to work on Thanksgiving.  I wish I could help out more in the kitchen, so that Mom wouldn't have to do so much.  Maybe one day I'll have a family to tend, instead of a farm, and I will be able to contribute more to the feast and festivities, instead of rushing in and rushing out, not even bothering to dress up enough to match the fine table settings.  Not that dressing up really matters.  I'd just like to wear something nicer than clean-but-stained jeans and a T-shirt to Thanksgiving dinner, without feeling inconvenienced by having to change again before getting back on the tractor.  Oh, well.  The food and memories are good.

Oh, and a note on the food: Most of it comes from the grocery store.  We don't raise turkeys.  Mom's delicious vegetable dish, which I can only convince her to make on special occasions, contains vegetables that we do not grow in our garden.  Our stuffing and gravy come from boxes (it's really quite tasty).  The wheat that was ground to make the flour for the biscuits was grown by some other farmer.  The pickles are homegrown and homemade, though, as are the potatoes.

So, that is Thanksgiving on the farm.  Not as inspiring or idealistic as one might think, but that's how it is.  It is the family working together, in the fields, and in the kitchen, sharing the load, and taking just enough time to enjoy some good food and good times, before returning to the work that allows us to celebrate together.

If the weather is good, this may very well be what I will be seeing for most of the day this Thanksgiving.